Son of Stone (Stone Barrington 21)

What the hell? Ripley thought. “His name wasn’t Barrington when he was here. It was Calder.”

“Like the sculptor?”

“Like the actor. So, if he’s accepted, he would matriculate in the fall?”

“It seems so.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up, James.”

“Not at all, Alan.”

“At least I’ll know what I’m up against if I have to face the headmaster monster.”

“If you get up this way, let me know, and I’ll buy you a bad lunch in our cafeteria.”

“Certainly will, James. Take care.” Ripley hung up and stared into the fire. So now Peter Calder is Peter Barrington? Let’s see, it’s January, he thought. If I start looking now, I might just be able to find a new job before the fall.

He poured himself a second scotch, a larger one.

38

Arrington drove from her rental house to her new property and turned down the long, oak-lined drive. Even from that distance she could see Tim Rutledge waiting for her on the front porch, a roll of blueprints under his arm. He stood stone-still, staring at her as she approached.

Arrington began to take deep breaths, trying to keep her blood pressure from rising. She parked her car out front, then gathered her purse and her briefcase and got out. She walked up the front steps purposefully, tucked her purse under one arm, and held out her hand. “Good morning, Tim,” she said.

He looked at her hand contemptuously, then deigned to shake it briefly. “Good morning,” he said. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

“I’m sure I will have a great deal to say to you, once we get to work, and it will be all business. I believe that has been made clear to you.”

“Well, Barrington called and said he was your lawyer. That was news to me.”

“He has been my attorney for just over a year, and I’m very pleased with him. I trust him to convey to others my exact intentions.”

“Does that include your intentions toward me?”

“It does. Now, shall we get to work?” Without waiting for a reply, she inserted her key in the front door and opened it. She walked into the broad hallway that ran the length of the house, stopped and looked around. “Take notes,” she said.

Rutledge produced a yellow legal pad and pen.

“The color of the wood stain on the floor of the library is not the one I selected; it’s not dark enough.”

“I thought it should be the same as that in the hall,” Rutledge replied.

Arrington walked into the library, set her briefcase on the top of a stepladder, opened it, and took out a stain chart. She dropped it on the floor. “See the X?” she asked. “That’s the color I want on this floor. Please see that it’s sanded and restained immediately. I can see that there’s only one coat of varnish applied, and when the stain is right, I want ten coats, as I specified earlier. Same for the hall.”

“All right,” Rutledge said, making a note.

“I do not want the move-in date changed by so much as an hour, because the ten coats have taken so long to dry. With the varnish I selected you can apply two coats a day, one at eight a.m., another at six p.m.”

“All right,” Rutledge said.

“Where is the shotgun cabinet?” she asked, pointing at a gap in the beautiful paneling, near the fireplace.

“The cabinetmaker made a serious error, and I insisted he remake it. It will be installed tomorrow.”

“When my furnishings arrive, you will find two very fine shotguns and two rifles that belonged to my father. Please be sure that they are securely locked in that cabinet. Where are the keys?”

“The cabinetmaker has them. He had to install the locks.”